


turn on the stars

by babybirdblues



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Discrimination, Dragons, Drinking, Gen, Violence, death mention, enslaving, if anything else needs to be tagged as triggering let me know, triggers are the following:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:53:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3209888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybirdblues/pseuds/babybirdblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quiet whisper of 'Combeferre' is what really settles the fury of Tyr in his blood.  Combeferre always settles when Enjolras speaks, even when he is trying to ignite a fire in the blood of the men around him.  Enjolras is nest brother, home, safety; and in Enjolras is control.  Control allows Combeferre to settle down upon his haunches and uncurl his wings.  Gavroche and Courfeyrac are safe - no more canons are firing; indeed, all the National Guardsmen that are still alive have retreated.  An intelligent move on their part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn on the stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morcai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morcai/gifts).



> This was written months ago for the lovely Fritz' birthday. It's part one of like three parts. I still have to finish the other ones.

Human senses are different.  That much Combeferre knows.  He was three when his nest father took him to the south - a Norman settler amongst the French - and he remembers it as clearly as it was yesterday. It is not the same for Courfeyrac or Enjolras who only have vague memories of that time.  Indeed, they look to Combeferre for past occurrences because they know some extent of his memory.  Courfeyrac takes great glee in claiming Combeferre could be Kvasir with his gift.

Sometimes he wishes it were not so great.

(He would rather be Heimdall, able to see all.)

Bullets speed towards Bahorel and all Combeferre can see is his nest father hunted down while he hides.  Feels those connections that kept him warm, kept him happy, break because he could do nothing to save his nest father.  Just like he can do nothing to save Bahorel.  Save his nest brother.  Not as he is now.

Searing heat races through his body.

It tears Combeferre up from the inside.  It has been many years since he has felt the change.  Many years since he has had something worth risking his complete freedom for this.  But Bahorel - the rest of his friends - are worth it.  The barricade is overrun.  They will not be getting out of here without a miracle.

Combeferre would not go so far to say he is that miracle.  (Miracles are the gods surviving ragnarok.)  But the surprise at his presence, at him, is.  Courfeyrac - and a smaller body (Gavroche) is held protectively against his chest.  In moments the canons shall be aimed at him.  He cannot allow those closest to him to be harmed by them.  Bahorel is safe.  He is far enough away the explosions shall do nothing, especially through the thicker layer of scales.

“Dragon!”

The call stinks of fear.  But it does not stop the National Guardsmen from advancing.  They have a duty - one they will not surrender for anything but death.  (Hel take them.)

But neither are nest siblings given up easily.

The wind is with him.  The night is warm, quiet besides the fighting and Combeferre has a purpose.  The National Guardsmen will scream.  Their screams shall join the night, fuse into the air around them.  Combeferre may be made to scream -

a dragon’s scream can kill.

Combeferre plans to.  He will not let these men - these men who aim to send his nest siblings to death - see another dawn.  He focuses his screams.  Focuses and brings the wrath of Níðhöggr down upon them.

It is only when he feels a hand against his chest scales - smooth and small over the coarse chinks of his own flesh - that Combeferre goes quiet.  Courfeyrac is staring at him in wonder, awe etched plainly across his features.

The quiet whisper of 'Combeferre' is what really settles the fury of Tyr in his blood.  Combeferre always settles when Enjolras speaks, even when he is trying to ignite a fire in the blood of the men around him.  Enjolras is nest brother, home, safety; and in Enjolras is control.  Control allows Combeferre to settle down upon his haunches and uncurl his wings.  Gavroche and Courfeyrac are safe - no more canons are firing; indeed, all the National Guardsmen that are still alive have retreated.  An intelligent move on their part.

The tableau at the barricade would perchance continue, his dear friends taking in the wondrous form that is Combeferre as a non-human, had it not been for Grantaire.  Grantaire who appears so pale in the flickering firelight - remnants of cannon fire and explosions.  Combeferre wishes to bring him close and examine him, would bring him close and examine him.  (Particularly that odd scent that clings to every pore of his body like Loki has cast a magick upon his friend.)  Grantaire does not allow this.  Not with how he barrels forwards, knocking Enjolras askew - not even apologising - and trembling.

—-

"We need to move," Grantaire glares when Enjolras goes to speak.  No doubt their dear leader should speak on their winning of ground.  But even the burning love R is consumed by cannot shake free the fear that is unfurling in his heart.  "Retreat and find safe ground.  There is no way we can win this my friends, even with Combeferre."

It is Jehan who finds the bravery to speak.  Jehan who’s worried about Grantaire as much as they are thriving on their victory.  ”What ails you my friend?  Combeferre is a dragon!  The National Guard cannot fight against a dragon and win.”

The sound bubbling out of Grantaire’s throat is not a laugh.  It is a mangled form of a sob, a shout.  ”No.  No, if you learnt your histories properly you would know that there is no fighting against dragons for the monarchy.  No, the monarchy once prided itself upon their steeds, their great backs.  But alas, all great men must fall, all must show their hands.  There are no dragons in France.  No dragons in France’s histories.  Would you care to know why my dear friends?”  R’s voice grows higher, louder.  It draws the attention of everyone at the barricade.  Combeferre has drawn into himself, even as he stares at his friend.  Grantaire would wager an entire month’s worth of the Green Fairy that the guide is as surprised at R’s knowledge as the rest of their friends.  Who would not be?  The drunk, the cynic, knowing such as this?  ”Because the monarchy has made it illegal for dragons to be in France.   It is too dangerous for them to be free.  Too dangerous for them to be alive.  If they are not slaves of the King then they are not to exist!”

Enjolras looks part horrified, part angry.  Grantaire can tell that he is angry at the thought of Combeferre in chains, forced to work for the monarchy.  He latches onto that thought, latches onto the anger their dear leader will have for his dearest friend.

“Would you subject Combeferre to that, Enjolras?  Would you truly wish him to be captured and enslaved?”

The words are no less brutal in the soft tone they are spoken.  But they do the job.  There is a flurry of movement as the men - boys - at the barricade jump to action.  Courfeyrac moves to Combeferre’s side, clinging to his hand and murmuring soft words (most likely of thanks).  Jehan hurries to their side; they picks up the young Gavroche and makes themself larger than they are.  The young boy is frightened, for all he owns the street.  Dragons are not something he knows about.  Joly is busy organising the injured with Bossuet as his right hand.  Feuilly and Bahorel, in light of Enjolras shock, are ordering silence from the rest of the men as they are stealthy evacuating the barricade.  It would not due for any of the National Guard to find out who the dragon is.  

Enjolras just watches.

To Grantaire it is odd.  But perhaps it is expected.  One who has never argued with any other than Enjolras himself just shouted at a dear friend.  One who never seemed to be anyone but a fool shows he is afraid, he is a coward.  (But they should have known this.)  It is when Enjolras goes to take a step towards Grantaire - (please stay away Enjolras you shine too brightly I might fall to my knees at your feet) - that everyone takes note of Marius and the older gentleman who was shadowing him.

“I know a place we can go, my friends.”

——-

The place turns out to be Marius’ grandfather’s home. Once Marius told them he would never return - but in the face of his friends, his brothers, dying or being enslaved - well, Marius has swallowed what anger and fear (what pride; and doesn’t Grantaire know about pride) he has.  Grantaire is glad at that - that Marius can release those feelings to protect those he holds dear, he loves.

Tonight is the night they live.

(He cannot be certain about tomorrow.)

When Marius’ grandfather opened the back door he was in shock.  It was not something that he expected to see, twelve -relatively - young people hiding from the barricade they erected.  He welcomes them though; how can he not, when they have returned Marius to him alive and well?  

Grantaire knows that look of poorly hidden distance.  Knows that look of fear.  He put it on his mother’s face far too often to watch Monsieur Gillenormond stare at his grandson in such a way.

Within the hour Grantaire cannot help but regret venturing into this old home with his friends.  He sits in a parlour in this house.  This house that appears a tomb, the company weary and brittle.  Only Marius has seemed to come alive, regaling his grandfather and aunt with tales of the barricade and the heroism of their quest.  They do not seem to agree but they are letting Marius prattle on, too relieved by his return.  But they are in another room.

“Grantaire, friend, I see you have found Monsieur’s good drink?”

Courfeyrac must have finally been released from Combeferre’s side then.  The man had not let his dear friend out of his grasp, not even when he returned to his mundane human form.

“Oh, of course.  If ever I were a bloodhound in a past life, I must have been useless for I do not desire blood, but wine, sweet wine!  If ever there were a greater nectar for the gods.”  The rest of their friends ignore them as Grantaire makes grand sweeping gestures with his arms.  Perhaps it is because they are in the adjacent room.  Perhaps it is because they are wary of Grantaire’s anger tonight.

Silence returns to the parlour.  The night sky is just lightening to dawn - has it only been a few hours since the attack in the middle of the night?  No doubt it would be beautiful.  The itch in R’s feet makes him almost wish he could go for a long ramble upon his streets, reacquaint himself with the Paris he loves.  But, he has no doubt that at least one of the  Parisian army has seen him.  It would not do to risk it.

Courfeyrac leaves him to his thoughts at some point - only to return with a few more bottles of wine.

“I could kiss you, dear friend.”

Brilliant hazel eyes shine in response, lines curving the shadows under them deeper (but the shadows no longer look so tired).  “I would not object.”

There is peace between them.

Slowly the rest of the lieutenants trickle in from the rest of the house.  R knows it is to find comfort in the familiarity where there is none.  The only two missing are Enjolras and Combeferre.  But they are not far if the low, heated argument drifting through the wall is any indication.

“We still lost too many tonight! I was-”

Enjolras does not get to finish his sentence.  Gavroche drops his cup as Marius lets out a sob (but it is not just Marius’ sob, no, it is the dark memory of blood in dark hair).  The wine has obviously gone to the freckled youth’s head.  

R does not mean to do it.  It is a dangerous secret to part with.  But the pain they are suffering -

(A small girl crying when she can no longer feel her mother, a young boy angry at the world he can no longer fly from.   Huginn and Muninn chained to an unforgiving cage.)

\- he would relieve them of some.

“Eponine is still alive Marius,” Grantaire takes a long drink from the bottle of wine that had been placed in front of him, staring hard at the wall.  It is easy not to look at his friend.  “She was a great friend to you.  You mourned her loss clearly; I believe we all felt this.”

Gavroche makes another small sound in the corner.

“I was a full dragon once.  My blood still has it’s uses.”

—-

Combeferre bites in a gasp.  Dragons blood can be used to heal, yes, but it is a dangerous line to toe.  R, must sense the guide’s thoughts for he looks at Combeferre.

“Do not worry.  Dragonet’s blood is less harmful than a full dragon’s blood.  It will not heal her completely but she is in good care.”

It is only then, when Jehan inquires, “What is a dragonet, dear R?” that Combeferre registers the full conversation.  He had originally been half listening, assuming Grantaire was speaking of his blood.  But no, R had said my blood.

It is not his secret to share, but Combeferre can not help it.  He breaks the silence, speaks before Grantaire can.  There is pain there, pain for R, pain for a nest brother whom had everything ripped away.  So, it does not surprise Combeferre that when the words find form his voice is wrecked.  ”A curse.”


End file.
